The story of the drunkest I’ve ever been is more depressing than funny. Same with the second drunkest, and the third. And maybe more than that. I’d rather not leave you feeling halfway dead inside, so I’ll tell you a different story: Let’s call it the approximately ninth to twelfth drunkest I’ve ever been.
It was spring semester of my freshman year in college in Manhattan and I was in a long distance relationship. What this means is that I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone. My story starts with such a call, one weekend night when two friends and I had plans to venture to a goth club. They pre-gamed vodka and 40s for an hour or more while I told someone 3,000 miles away it was their turn to hang up first. When I emerged, it was time to leave, and the last thing I remember is proclaiming that I “needed to catch up,” and raising a mug brimming with cheap vodka to my lips.
When I came to, 12 hours later, I was in my bed, wearing my goth clothes from the night before, covered in crumbs and crumpled slices of potato bread. It was 11am. An empty bucket was perched next to my pillow and the windowsill was littered with several glasses of water in different states of fullness. “What, uh, happened last night?” I yelled across at my dozing roommate. “Ask me later.” She mumbled.
I made it to the goth club—just not through the front doors. Unable to stand and propped between two friends, the bouncer suggested they get me some food and come back later. “But I’m 18!” I insisted.
Down the block at Subway, my friend poured me into a plastic chair and brought me a sandwich, leaving momentarily for napkins. When he returned, cold cut carnage. Bread, shredded lettuce, pepperonccini and turkey slices lay smashed at my feet, and he decided it was time to take me back to the dorms.
My friend slung me over his shoulder and walked until he succumbed to exhaustion. The first cab did pick us up, only to eject us a half block later when the driver voiced concern that I would vomit in the back seat. My friend tried his best to prop me up as I fulfilled the cabbie’s expectations into the gutter. No more cabs would stop.
Then our saviors appeared from behind a darkened corner: A well-dressed middle aged couple. “She’s very drunk, isn’t she?” The woman inquired. “Come. We’ll give you a ride.” And they did, with no funny stuff.
Right to the front door of our brick building on 12th where my friend, again, stoically hoisted my limp and puking frame over his shoulders and carried me past the amused night security guards. (And, I later discovered—like, every single person I had class with that semester. Over the next couple weeks I was taken aside by innumerable Den Mother types who
knew erroneously believed, wholly unjustifiably, that I had some kind of substance abuse problem.)
It could have been a lot worse.
Bread image courtesy of Earl, flickr